


Acorns and Oakenshields II

by Avelera



Series: Bagginshield Drabbles [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bilbo Remains In Erebor, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Shire, Character Study, Drabble Collection, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2018-06-04 13:47:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 11,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6660712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avelera/pseuds/Avelera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More acorns, more Oakenshields!</p><p>A collection of my various Tumblr prompted drabbles for the Bagginshield pairing, though contains some individual character study pieces as well.</p><p>Ch. 1 - Who ordered the venti soy gluten free mocha latte with extra foam?<br/>Ch. 2 - Tea!<br/>Ch. 3 - Thorin gets a hobby, to Bilbo's dismay.<br/>Ch. 4 - Thorin, Bilbo, and kittens.<br/>Ch. 5 - In which Dwalin figures it out before Thorin.<br/>Ch. 6 - Dwarves and the Gaffer's homebrew do not mix.<br/>Ch. 7 - In which Dwalin reminds Thorin to chill.<br/>Ch. 8 - Thorin, Bilbo, and interior design.<br/>Ch. 9 - Ducks, because why not?<br/>Ch. 10 - Thorin and Bilbo weigh in on Captain America 3: Civil War.<br/>Ch. 11 - An attempted foot massage.<br/>Ch. 12 - Quiet in the library.<br/>Ch. 13 - He was born of fire.<br/>Ch. 14 - Dying is easy, my son.<br/>Ch. 15 - What if Bilbo took the Ring to Mordor?<br/>Ch. 16 - A sillier version of What if Bilbo took the Ring to Mordor.<br/>Ch. 17 - Thorin and baby Dís get acquainted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. venti soy gluten free mocha latte with extra foam

**Author's Note:**

> Just as a reminder, **please do not leave prompts in the comment section!** I only accept those on Tumblr when prompts are specifically requested.
> 
> If you would like an alert for when I publish original novels and short stories, you can sign up [here](http://eepurl.com/dnzuV1).

  **Based on the Tumblr post** : ok but which person in your otp orders the venti soy  gluten free mocha latte with extra foam from starbucks and which one makes a pot of black coffee and just puts a straw in it?

* * *

 

“This is wrong,” Bilbo muttered as he doled out the coins to the cashier. Thorin stood placidly by, only raising an eyebrow as Bilbo let the poor barista off the hook and fixed his husband with his burgeoning glare instead. 

“It’s only a drink, _ghivashel_.”

“I thought you dwarves were all supposed to have some _taste_.”

“Indeed,” Thorin said. “You realize I am not forcing you to have one?”

Bilbo threw his arms up in the air. “It’s indecent! For someone of your stature to… to… _drink that muck_.”

“You’ve never cared about my _stature_ before.”

“I’m your husband, it’s my duty," Bilbo said primly. 

“Is that why you describe me as _a very important dwarf_ in that children’s book of yours?” Thorin retorted.

“You’re changing the subject,” Bilbo groused, only to be ignored as Thorin’s face brightened at a sight behind his shoulder (or head, Thorin was quite a bit taller) and the dwarf accepted his drink from the counter. “And what’s taking mine so long?”

“Perhaps they’re making more,” Thorin said, taking a sip from his straw and closed his eyes, relishing the flavor. Bilbo made a face at the sight.

“How long could it possibly take?” Bilbo said. “Pour it in the mug, then stick a straw in it.”

“It would melt,” Thorin said as he used his straw to take a dollop of whipped cream off the top of his “venti soy gluten free mocha latte with extra foam” _monstrosity, “_ I always thought Hobbits were creatures of comfort who would understand the taste of a good drink.”

“And _I_ never thought to meet a dwarf with a sweet tooth. Coffee is coffee. It is meant to wake you up. If I wanted to enjoy the taste, I’d order tea,” Bilbo said.

“Are you certain you don’t want to at least try?” Thorin said, and was he smirking? Oh yes he was _definitely_ smirking, taking inhuman delight as one of the most battle-hardened, royal-bloodlined– frankly _terrifying_ if you didn’t know he was really as soft as butter underneath– person Bilbo had ever met outside a history book, and then proceeding to ruin the entire image with a dessert masquerading as a drink in one hand and Bilbo’s hand in the other. There went his plausible deniability to be seen with such an embarrassment.

Bilbo answered with a look. Thorin shrugged, his smirk growing.

“As you wish,” Thorin said. The only benefit to the insult to the beverage world that he called a drink was that it was quite sweet, and it did improve the taste of kissing those lips once they were back in the safety and _privacy_ of their home.

Not that Bilbo would ever admit it.


	2. On the Importance of Making Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwydions prompted: May I suggest a prompt? I wondered what would Bilbo do if he was having a hard time a then even his baking skills would betray him? (Like ruining a simple recipe) It can be angsty or fluffy. I’m curious how Thorin would react as well.
> 
> We took a turn for the angsty here, folks!

Even after hundreds of miles on foot, nerves jangling the whole way, and time for a hundred ill-fated scenarios to play through Thorin’s mind, he still did not expect Bilbo’s reaction when he knocked on the hobbit’s door. 

The hobbit went absolutely _white_  and turned on his heels, not even bothering to close the door behind him before Thorin could even open his mouth for a greeting. Thorin could only follow without an invitation to do so as Bilbo made a beeline for the kitchen, and immediately set to work over the kettle, his hands shaking so badly he spilled water all over the floor as he worked. 

“Tea, tea that’s the thing, tea oh _blast,”_ Bilbo muttered as he worked and Thorin stood to the side, stupefied as the hobbit only glanced at him occasionally then quickly away. 

Finally Bilbo threw up his hands. “Tea!”

“Bilbo,” Thorin said quietly. “What is the matter with the tea?”

“It’s always worked before,” Bilbo exclaimed. “Whenever you appeared. Make tea, steady the nerves, then it all goes away. Good gracious _what is taking the tea so long_?” 

Thorin’s brow furrowed as Bilbo stood with his armed crossed, anxiously tapping his feet, scrubbing his fingers through his hair and pacing as he waited for the water to boil. Finally, beginning to feel anxious himself at the hobbit’s frantic movements, Thorin stepped in front of Bilbo and the hobbit thudded against his chest mid-step, and recoiled. 

Bilbo frowned. “That’s never happened before. What….?”

“Bilbo,” Thorin said, and took Bilbo’s wrists in hand, not sure if such a gesture was welcome, whether he had lost the privilege after his actions under the sickness, but too worried to care. “Calm yourself. What is wrong?”

Bilbo looked up at him… and his expression crumpled. “It always worked before,” Bilbo gasped. “It always… why are you still here?”

“Where else would I be?” Thorin said in puzzlement. 

“Gone. You’ve always vanished before now and… oh.”

The kettle began to whistle, but neither of them paid it any mind. 

“You’re really here? It’s not just another…” Bilbo began and swallowed. “Another dream.”

Thorin’s expression fell, heart twisting and perhaps it was not proper, or accepted, but at the look of devastation on Bilbo’s face, he dragged the hobbit forward into a bone-crushing hug. “I’m here, Bilbo,” Thorin murmured. “I’m so sorry it has taken so long. I’m here.”


	3. Tinkering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emsiecat prompted: Thorin trying to adjust to an easy life in the Shire with Bilbo? Like there’s no Quest, no leadership needed, no scrabbling around to make ends meet; how does he deal with this? Does he get ‘cabin-fever’? Is he just super chill? :3
> 
> The answer is: he tinkers. 
> 
> Feel free to think of this one as a sequel to the previous chapter ;)

“You don’t have hot water.”

Bilbo looked up from his book, “I beg your pardon?”

“Water pumps into the kitchen and bathroom from the well,” Thorin said patiently, as if speaking to a small child. “But it is cold. There is no boiler to heat it. I noticed when last I was here, before the quest. You have no hot water.”

“Well, no,” Bilbo said, puzzled. “I just boil it for washing up like everyone else, and extra on Saturday for bath day. I’m not a savage after all. You say that as if it’s odd.”

“Then I will build you one,” Thorin said with all the solemnity of a royal edict, and wandered away. 

* * *

It was the last Bilbo saw of Thorin for some days, though he did hear the almighty banging in the basement and at one point caught a glimpse of Thorin hauling something that looked like an oversized tub, if tubs had a lid, up from the forge he had set up when he had first come to live with Bilbo at Bag End. Bilbo left Thorin meals in the kitchen, but rarely saw him eat them. Rather like a cat, really. 

And like a cat, Thorin appeared near the end of the month from the basement as proud as the champion mouser depositing his latest catch on the doorstep. 

“We now have hot water,” Thorin pronounced. And lo, there was now a second spigot in the bathroom and kitchen. How on earth it had gotten there without Bilbo noticing was a mystery, no less than the wonder of turning it on and nearly being scalded to death. 

“Why… thank you, I suppose, Thorin. This will be very useful,” Bilbo said, stuttering a bit in his bafflement. 

Thorin simply nodded, apparently pleased with himself. 

* * *

It was not the first project Thorin embarked upon, and nowhere near the last, but it was the most useful, Bilbo would admit with some exasperation. The forge he had understood because Thorin was a dwarf, and hot water was a staple in Erebor that Thorin no doubt felt deprived not to have in such a sleepy village as Hobbiton.

But the automatic lock on the door had now trapped Bilbo on his own front stoop several times (”You only need to bring your key with you,” Thorin explained patiently. “The house is safer this way.”). Next had been the fanciful engravings that had appeared on nearly every spoon in the house. (”Only the tin ones,” Thorin said. “I left the silver alone as I know you treasure it.” “There’s hardly any of those though!” Bilbo had exclaimed, to which Thorin had admitted “Aye, I suspect your neighbor made off with most of them long ago, I meant to tell you when I first arrived…”) but the mechanical watering device for his garden was the last straw. 

“I don’t need a dratted _machine_  to water my garden, Thorin, I _like_  watering my garden!” Bilbo exploded, throwing his hands up in the air. 

“You spend hours at it every day,” Thorin pointed out. “It’s a waste of your time.”

“It’s not a waste of my time, it’s a _hobby,”_ Bilbo exclaimed. “I _like_  wasting time at it!”

“A what?” Thorin said blankly. 

Bilbo’s jaw dropped, as slowly it began to dawn on him what should have been obvious from the start. “You mean, all this tinkering isn’t…? You’ve never…oh dear…”

Thorin held his gaze, expression blank for a long, long while… until finally he broke with an exasperated sigh. 

“Yes, Bilbo, I know what a _hobby_  is, what do you think I’ve been _doing_ these past weeks?” He stood, dusting the dirt off his knees from where he had been crouching in the garden with that infernal device for Bilbo’s prized tomatoes. Then a small, sly grin quirked the corner of Thorin's mouth. “But you did believe it for a moment, didn't you?” 


	4. The Language of Birds, Exclusively

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> simariethehawk prompted: I would love to see [Thorin and Bilbo] with some kittens.

“Who do they belong to?” Thorin said, craning over Bilbo’s shoulder as the hobbit crouched beside a nest of the most unexpected kind under the eaves of Bag End. 

Bilbo puffed a sigh. “Belong to? What a curious notion. Cats in the Shire tend to roam free. We even have a legend that they carry tales and gossip, which is why you must always be careful what you say in front of a cat.” He said this absently, sucking at at his teeth as he looked down at the furry litter of kittens curled into a shallow hole beside the house.

“Is it so unusual a question? _Your_ people are the ones that keep animals, why not cats?” Thorin said. 

“I seem to remember some alarmingly large goats and war pigs while visiting your homeland,” Bilbo replied. “Or was that just a figment of my imagination?”

Thorin snorted. “We do not _keep_  them, they speak with us and share our burdens, just as the ravens do.” 

“Well then would you care to ask these kittens where their mother has gotten off to? I hate to leave them for a hawk to make off with,” Bilbo said. 

He meant it as a joke, but Thorin only inclined his head, gravely looked to the kittens and back to Bilbo and said, “I’m afraid I do not speak their language.”

“Right of course, how silly of me,” Bilbo huffed, and turned back to the kittens, muttering to himself, “ _Doesn’t speak **their** language_ , sometimes I forget I came back with an actual fairy prince for a husband…”

“What was that?” Thorin said, his voice a rumble of amusement behind him.

“Nothing dear,” Bilbo called back. “Now, can you please fetch a blanket and some of the cold chicken? I suppose we’d better wait here until the mother comes back, or I shan’t sleep a wink tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I managed to sneak in an obscure reference to the equally obscure Tolkien figure of Queen Beruthiel, in case anyone noticed ;)
> 
> Also, yes canonically dwarves do not keep animals according to Tolkien, but they can also understand the languages of birds as seen in the book, so I figured to make the movie (with all their war pigs and war goats) and book canon agree you just have to modify it so that they see themselves as in partnership with animals rather than "keeping" them. Hope you enjoyed!


	5. Clear as the nose on your face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> smolthegreatandterrible prompted: Thorin telling Dwalin something he thinks is super embarrassing and weird, only to have Dwalin react in a completely underwhelmed way :P
> 
> One of the longer fills, I hope you enjoy!

For all their distrust of the bargeman, the barrel-ride down the river had been harrowing and the journey to Lake-town went long into the night. So one by one the dwarves of the Company dropped into sleep, led first by Bilbo who began to snore softly before the sun even set. Understandable, given that he had been awake for days while working to free them all. Bard said he would stay awake through the night at the tiller, explaining that he was accustomed to such journeys. Dwalin and Thorin, being admittedly distrustful bastards (as Dwalin would say) or merely prudent (as Thorin would), agreed to take turns at watch while the others slept. 

It was barely an hour before Dwalin tossed off the makeshift blanket, an itchy piece of sackcloth that smelled of fish, and sat down next to Thorin, his back thudding against the side of the barge. Thorin looked at him askance, to which Dwalin shrugged. “Felt like I was gonna hurl lying down like that,” he said.

Thorin nodded, then went back to staring into the distance. Nothing strange there, it was practically a hobby of Thorin’s, but this time "the distance" was distinctly less Erebor-facing and a hell of a lot more specific. Namely, at the burglar who was now drooling slightly onto Ori’s shoulder.

“I have wronged him, Dwalin,” Thorin said quietly, so as not to carry to Bard, but also likely because he was in one of his Moods. The ones where Thorin began to think too much about everything and he acted like everything from now back to Mahal forging the Seven Fathers was his damn fault. This was an even less unusual phenomena with Thorin, so Dwalin settled back and prepared to listen for however long it would take. 

“Yeah, you were a bit of a bastard to him. But then, we all were,” Dwalin agreed, and Thorin sighed. 

“I have been thinking, since he rescued us. Me. When he leapt to my defense after the Goblin Tunnels, when I had done nothing but scorn him. He has done us even more for us since, and I am shamed.” 

Dwalin didn’t point out that it was hardly _his_ fault Bilbo had been the only one left standing when Thorin confronted Azog, _he_ had been dangling off a tree over certain death at the time. Not worth mentioning either the few hundred other times he had defended Thorin in battle before Bilbo was even born. It was hardly the point.  _Dwalin_  enjoyed fighting, which was more than could probably be said for their burglar. It took some courage to put a squishy little body like Bilbo’s smack in front of a hungry warg’s mouth with only a letter opener for a sword. Which is why Dwalin felt he already knew where this discussion was going, and just wondered how long until Thorin figured it out too. 

 _Bah_ , too long already. “So you fancy him. ‘Figured as much.”

Thorin reared back as if Dwalin had just confessed to being a tree-shagging elf in disguise. “I did not _say_  that!” Thorin said in a strangled tone. 

 _Ah_ _hell_ , that explained it, Thorin had dug himself _deep_  on this one. Dwalin thought back, wondering where it could have began that he’d worked himself up to this level of denial. The dungeons in Mirkwood? The bear’s house? Rivendell? It could be the bloody  _Shire_  from the look Thorin was giving him now. 

“So? It’s clear as the nose on your face. Don’t really see what the problem is,” Dwalin said. 

Thorin blinked, then settled back again. Bard had looked up at Thorin’s exclamation, and they waited for the bargeman to lapse back into complacency before they spoke again, this time quieter.

“As a companion, perhaps,” Thorin hissed. “He has saved us from many dangers, stayed true though there was no profit in it for him…”

“Blows damn good smoke rings too, and writes poetry from what I’ve heard. I’m not stupid, Thorin, I know your type when I see it,” Dwalin said. 

“ _He’s not…_ ” Thorin began and paused, eyes widening in shock. 

 _Shit_. Had Dwalin _really_  figured it out _before_ him?

“I am lost,” Thorin whispered. 

“Yeah, figured that one for awhile too,” Dwalin said. “So what’s got you worried now?”

Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose, looking about ready to worry himself to death. “I have nothing to offer. It would be no life for him. He would be happier in his home, the dwarven lords might scorn him, there would be questions, it is impossible from the start…”

Dwalin harrumphed, and began ticking off on his fingers. “One, we’ll probably die facing the dragon anyway. Two, if we don’t, who gives a shit, we’ll be rich and you’ll be king so they can’t say anything about it. Three, he fits in just fine with us, if he helps get the kingdom back he’ll be a damned hero anyway, more than he is already. Four, you’ve already got heirs so anyone who cares what plumbing your consort has can go bugger themselves. Five, it’s not like you have to worry if he wants you back, he already looks at you like you lit the stars yourself. Six…” He trailed off. “Didn’t have anything after that. You get the point though.”

“He what?” Thorin said blankly and it would just figure that with all the perfectly logical reasons it might not work out that Dwalin had listed and dismissed, _that_  was the one Thorin would get hung up on. 

“Ye think he came all this way for the scenery?” Dwalin scoffed. “You saw his home, a bit folksy, but ten times the size of all the others on that hill. He doesn’t need the money. You didn’t see it, but he was trying to shove us all out his door until you arrived, then he was right as rain with the whole affair. I’d say that’s about when he changed his mind. So if you’re worried about the hobbit,” Dwalin chewed over the end of the sentence for a bit, then shrugged, “don’t.”

Thorin went quiet, which was a relief because he usually only did that right before he admitted someone else was right. 

“If I were to pursue this…” Thorin said cautiously, and oh no, that wouldn’t do, there was nothing Dwalin hated more than Thorin sounding like _he_  was the one who needed permission, in those quiet moments that no one but Dwalin and his brother ever really got to see. “You think the others would approve?”

“Approve?” Dwalin snorted. “The lot of them took bets on how long it would take for you to figure it out. Pool is split between Bilbo first or you. I guess half of ‘em just won.”

Thorin huffed a small, disbelieving laugh and damned if it wasn’t good to see some of that tension go out of his shoulders and for him to give one of those rare smiles since this whole sodding Quest began. “And which did you choose?”

“Don’t be stupid, Thorin,” Dwalin snorted. “I don’t bet on somethin’ as important as that. I just want you to be happy for once.”

“Dwalin…”

“Besides, wouldn’t have any money left over anyway, I put all my bets on beating the dragon.”

“And if you lose?” Thorin said, with a faint smirk. 

Dwalin laughed. “It’s not like I’ll be around for anyone to collect.”


	6. This Too Shall Pass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymoussong prompted: Someone makes a joke about Erebor’s fall around Thorin (pray for them) and Thorin is OFFENDED
> 
> Carrying over from the theme of Dwalin and Thorin's friendship from the previous chapter. Not strictly speaking Bagginshield, more of a character study but rest assured I consider this a "canonical" scene from my personal biography of Thorin.
> 
> Title is from a song of the same name by Danny Schmidt.

“Ma _hal_ , not latrine duty again! Sometimes I wish the dragon had roasted me instead.”

The camp went still as bearded faces of every color turned to stare at the lone dwarf, who had gone rigid and rather pale at the realization of what he had just said. 

It was six months since the fall of Erebor, and the city's refugees made their home on the road, now a wandering kingdom. Dwarves were a passionate people, and the wailing and lamentations had been deafening in the first months, now quieted in the dreary day-to-day lull of survival for those who had once been members of the richest kingdom in the world. 

No one needed to look to see the expression on Prince Thorin’s face, you could have felt the storm clouds brewing from a mile away. In fact, many seemed to be as much staring at the offending would-be jester in shock as were looking at him so as to _not_  cross glances with Thorin. The Prince straightened, jaw tight and he took one step forward towards the complainer.

Then there was a snicker, which in the painful swell of awkward silence was as loud as a thunderclap. 

“Aye, or to still be trapped there. Dragon dung can’t be much worse than your smell, Ginnar!” 

A chuckle spread amongst the tight cluster of dwarves, faint and shaky at first, then spread. 

“Look who’s one to talk! I’d take old Smaug as a tent mate over your snoring any day!”

“Did me a favor, the dragon did. Remember that chip over the lintel my wife’s been after me to fix? Can’t do anything about it now!” 

That was the last straw. Laughter rolled through the camp as each joke, no matter how terrible, regarding the city’s fall fetched hearty belly laughs until finally Thorin was the only one standing in the middle, mouth agape, as he stared at his traitorous countrymen. 

“This is _not_ funny!” Thorin bellowed, but over the dull roar no one could hear him except Dwalin, or at least no one cared. He turned to his friend, anger and bewilderment and bone-deep _hurt_  warring in his eyes. 

“Come on, Thorin, it’s a little funny,” Dwalin snorted. 

“Our _home_ , Dwalin…”

“Is gone,” he said shortly. “Not much we can do about it now, least not yet. Let ‘em have their laugh,” Dwalin said, then added under his breath, “Durin knows you need it as much as them.” But Thorin had stopped listening at that point looking out in utter bafflement over the crowd of laughing dwarves each fighting to come up with the most off-color joke about their recent tragedy. 

Dwarves were a passionate people. They weep and wail at sorrow, rage at enemies, and laugh at danger. But mourning could only go for so long before those passions shifted and demanded equal joy in place of equal sorrow. From the looks of Thorin though, Dwalin thought, he appeared ready to turn that period of mourning into a national sport, and one he was determined to win. 

Dwalin grabbed Thorin by the arm and yanked him forward, knocking him off balance and shaking him free of wherever he went when he thought about the city. “Come on, you have to admit, even a march through the rain in squelching boots is better than another of those damned council sessions.”

Thorin started, staring at his friend, then slowly managed a weak, rueful grin. “Aye, perhaps it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know these little stories are clustered together, but I do appreciate hearing from people on individual drabbles whenever possible. Thank you for reading!


	7. Homebrew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> evil-bones-mccoy prompted: Hungover Thorin has to deal with a guild dispute.

It was September 23rd, in the year of the Third Age 2943, and Thorin knew this because it was the day after Bilbo’s birthday and one that he would curse for years to come. How long exactly that would be was much more fuzzy, as each second like an eternity. 

Somewhere on the far end of a long stone table of beautiful black basalt that provided no warmth or comfort to his aching elbows, back, head, stomach, and at this point eyelashes, was the head of the jewel crafters’ guild. What he was saying could not be heard over the pounding of Thorin’s blood in his own ears which was rather like a drumbeat of pure vindictive agony at the moment, a kindly reminder from his body that he had essentially poisoned it the night before, and it was now time to pay up. 

His head lolled forward and this was not good, dignity be damned but he couldn’t be seen dying a slow death at his own council table. Knowing his nephews they’d actually carve that cause into his sarcophagus so he could be remembered by all future dwarven epics as “King Thorin II, fondly loved and remembered in peace and war, laid low by hobbit homebrew and we are still laughing.” 

Even thinking the word “homebrew” brought a wave of nausea and a revision to the previous thought. Forget the sarcophagus, dying would be less painful than this, and Thorin rose abruptly to his feet. 

“I have heard enough,” he said, and hoped that his tone was foreboding enough that the guild leader would assume something in his speech had given offense. He stormed away from the table, thankful for a cloak that gave an impressive sweep to hide the shakiness of his legs and to his own surprise managed the ten feet or so down the hallway to his own quarters at a stately march before his legs finally revolted and he stumbled through the door.

The rest of the way to the bed was tumbling, stumbling half-fall. Thorin _finally_ curled up, thanking his ancestors that there were no windows underground, and allowed himself a faint, self-pitying moan under his breath. He was quite proud of his restraint up to that point. Until a curly head appeared at the bleary corner of his vision.

“Oh dear, it seems dwarves really _can’t_  handle the Gaffer’s homebrew,” Bilbo grinned. “I believe that means I have won both the drinking contest _and_  the wager.”

“Silence, or I will tell the court of your plot to kill the king,” Thorin mumbled into the pillow. 

Bilbo tutted. “You’ll have to get _back_ to said court first, and I’ve seen kittens more fearsome then you at this moment. After this morning, I’m surprised you made it the whole hour.”

“Thought it was longer…” 

“Yes, yes, you’re very brave. Now relax, I’ve magnanimously decided to be a good sport about this, so I’ll bring you some water and a damp cloth for your eyes if you’re good,” Bilbo said. 

“A curse on all hobbits… and their homebrews…” Thorin muttered, lacking the strength for anything more threatening. 

“If you’re like this, I shudder to think what has happened to Mister Dwalin,” Bilbo said, then looked thoughtful. “On second thought, perhaps I should send someone to make sure our Company isn’t one man short before its time.”

“You drank as much as us,” Thorin said accusingly, mustering a bit of venom to address the general unfairness of the universe, which at this point he distantly knew should not serve as such a shock to him. 

“Well, I can’t help it if you dwarves are such delicate creatures,” Bilbo said, and only laughed at Thorin’s inarticulate groan in response. 

 


	8. Interior Design

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pazithigallifreya prompted: bickering over the interior decorating because XD

When Thorin had told Bilbo that he should wait to judge Erebor until it had been “cleaned and redecorated”, the hobbit had not paused to consider where that rather camp statement had originated. Because as it turned out, Thorin had an absolute _passion_  for interior design. 

This surprise was matched in bafflement by Dwalin’s love of higher level mathematics, Bombur’s skill at architecture, the fact Ori wished to become a historian and that Dori’s profession before embarking on the Quest was that of a tea shop owner. It seemed every day in Erebor led to another revelation about the private lives for the dwarves he had only known as hardened warriors for the past half year.

Thorin currently stood in their living quarters, scratching idly at his beard as he frowned at the blank walls, a stack of parchment with various designs on the work table before him. “I drew what I recall of your home from memory, but I’m afraid it will take at least the year to send for any hobbit craftsmen, or the furniture from Bag End. Our engineers are still baffled by how the hinges on those round doors work, but if you would care to advise…”

“Thorin,” Bilbo said, interrupting Thorin’s tirade. The dwarf turned just in time for Bilbo to deposit a kiss on his cheek, and that stern, focused expression broke like the sun emerging from behind a cloud into a soft grin which was frankly unfair for Bilbo’s constitution. “There’s no need for you to fret over this.”

“These are our _quarters_ , Bilbo. If I am to expect you to stay with me, then it should be in comfort and familiarity,” Thorin said. 

“Yes, because the reason I stayed by your side during the Quest was because everything was so terribly comfortable and familiar,” Bilbo said, and glanced over Thorin’s shoulders at the designs on the table. “These are quite good actually. Bombur’s work?”

“My own,” Thorin said softly. “Even if it has been some time since I had the opportunity to apply such skills.”

“It’s very lovely, my dear, the hobbit who lives here will be quite the lucky fellow. But!” He tugged on Thorin’s hand. “That can wait. Pipeweed travels faster than furniture, and I thought you should have a break with me on the battlements before we lose the sun,” he said, and began to tug Thorin towards the door as the dwarf gave a rueful, if fond, sigh as he followed. 


	9. Ducks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ravendarkwood prompted: Dialogue about ducks?
> 
> Because why the heck not?

The ducks at Beorn’s house were as unsettlingly large as every other animal that made its home there, and the fact they were quite nearly half Bilbo’s size did not seem to deter the hobbit from sitting by the pond in the garden idly tossing chunks of honey-sweetened bread into the water to be snatched up by the water fowl. 

“I’m sure they’ve had quite enough to eat already,” Thorin said as he took a seat beside Bilbo on the bank. It felt like an apology, at least he meant it partially as such, making up for his prior distance and ill temper towards the hobbit by seeking his company and opinion now. Feeding the ducks was not what Thorin would consider a productive use of their time, but given that they could not leave until the morning there was very little else _to_ do. 

“Hush, it’s relaxing, and more for my benefit than theirs” Bilbo said out of the corner of his mouth without looking at Thorin. He tore off another chunk and tossed it into the water. It was immediately savaged by an alarmingly vicious mallard. 

“Feeding them up for slaughter? I’m sure our host would not appreciate us kidnapping one of his subjects for food,” Thorin observed. “Even if one would be enough to get the whole Company through that blasted wood.”

“If you’d like, you’re welcome to try to catch one,” Bilbo said pleasantly. “Though these ducks are quite possibly more of a threat than the bear-man standing behind you.”

Thorin did _not_  jump, but he might have surreptitiously straightened as he glanced back, fearing to see if the master of the house had heard his comment. Only to turn around again at the sound of Bilbo’s snickering. 

“I think I liked you better when you were afraid of me,” Thorin said darkly. 

“Oh come now,” Bilbo chuckled. “I think I deserved that one.”

 


	10. Civil War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fae-of-the-rose prompted: I wanna be mean and say “Captain America Civil War argument” but uh a book vs. movie/TV series discussion?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this one today in honor of the film finally being released in the US :3

“There is some merit to the Stark case,” Thorin said dubiously as he read the back of the DVD cover. “Immortal beings wreaking havoc, with little care for how their actions injure the lives of others. If only we could send all the elves back to their island in the western sea.” 

Bilbo made a face before plucking the DVD from Thorin’s hand and popping the disc into the player. “You _would_  sympathize with the wealthy heir of a technological kingdom.”

“Your family was hardly impoverished,” Thorin pointed out. Bilbo wandered back from the TV and sat beside him on the couch, curling up under Thorin’s arm. “You don’t agree?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Bilbo said softly. “Rogers is a good man at heart, and I think I can understand him. What it must be like to see the person you care about made into something he isn’t against his will, defending him against those who would scorn and imprison him, even if it meant facing death. I should hope I could be half so brave.”

Thorin went quiet at this, and pulled Bilbo closer, tightening his arm around him as the movie began. 

 


	11. Cold Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trucbiduleschouettes prompted: Thorin’s feet being cold against Bilbo’s legs when they sleep?

“That won’t work you know.”

Thorin deflated, and Bilbo felt the slight change in pressure as he removed his feet from where they had been pressed against Bilbo’s larger ones. 

“After all the times you’ve pressed your cold feet against mine…” Thorin groused.

“It’s not on purpose!” Bilbo exclaimed. “Until I met you, I didn’t even know it was possible to _have_ cold feet.”

“They’re like ice,” Thorin said. “Can I be blamed for seeking some measure of revenge?”

“Yes, if only because you’re terribly misinformed," Bilbo said. "I walked barefoot across half of Middle Earth for you, do you really think I could have done so if I felt anything below the ankles?”

“So I take it a foot massage is also out of the question?” Thorin said wryly. 

“Not unless you intend to perform it with a hammer and chisel, my dear,” Bilbo said. “But if you like, I can always try to get the hang of offering you one in return. Is it true you can actually feel _temperature_  with those delicate little paws of your?” 

“I’m a dwarf, we are not _delicate_ ,” Thorin retorted with a sigh, and a minuscule grin at the old argument. 

“Of course not,” Bilbo said, patting Thorin’s arm companionably. “Only in this.”


	12. An Avid Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompted: Librarian/Avid Reader

The man’s expression was thunderous as he loomed over Bilbo, a piece of paper clutched in his hand with a scribbled call number on it that he held in front of Bilbo’s face.

“I have searched and searched, and these books are nowhere to be found,” the man grated. “Don’t you think it’s about time you did your job, and assisted me in finding them?”

Bilbo blinked, looking up from his book on 18th century cartography to regard the man. He stood at least a foot taller than Bilbo, with long black hair tied in a ponytail, with silver streaks at the temples. His eyes were very blue and his tone extremely unfriendly, the latter of which was not doing much for Bilbo’s desire to help him.

He closed his book deliberately, replacing the bookmark on the page, and looked over the rim of his reading glasses. “May I see that?” he said, pointing to the piece of paper.

The man nodded curtly and handed it over, folding his arms while Bilbo scanned the number.

“I see you in here quite often” Bilbo observed as he read. “I should think you would know the layout by now.”

“This place is a labyrinth, which is not the least improved when the librarian goes about hiding the books and refuses to help his customers find them,” the man said.

Bilbo put the note down, this time removing his glasses as he looked up frankly at the man. “I’m sorry, do we know each other?”

The man’s lips thinned. “I see you are here almost everyday, but I've never had need of your assistance before and so, no, I don’t believe we’ve ever spoken.”

“I thought not. I was wondering, given your breathtaking level of rudeness. Usually only my closest family members take the liberty to order me around like a servant with any illusion that I might listen.”

A muscle twitched in the man’s cheek as he grimaced, sounding not the least apologetic as he said, “I am Thorin Thrainsson, and if it would please you to help me find these items, I would be much obliged.”

“Bilbo Baggins,” Bilbo said, taking up the note again and passing it back. “Well, I can think of two things that might aid you in your search, Mr. Thrainsson. First, the reason you probably could not find it is that number on the end indicates it is in the Quarto section for oversized book, which is separate from the typical corporate law section, a nuisance I know, and a common misunderstanding for those unfamiliar with this library.”

“The second?” Thorin said, now without nearly so much venom, and “chewing rocks” no longer a perfect descriptor for his expression. One might even say it had softened.

“In the future, it may help if you ask the librarian for help, rather than a fellow reader,” Bilbo said, flashing the cover of his book and enjoying a flicker of satisfaction at how this rude fellow’s eyes widened. “Now, I don’t know where Alfrid has gotten off to, but if I find him I will send him your way for any future questions.”

“You’re not…?” Thorin said.

“Never stacked a book in my life,” Bilbo said pleasantly. But if he was expecting an apology it was another disappointment he would have to live with, as he caught only a glimpse of Thorin’s blush before he turned on his heels towards the stacks. Incidentally, in the wrong direction.

“Well, that would explain it,” Bilbo muttered under his breath, and turned back to his book.


	13. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Stiving-Artist, a first person character study of Thorin Oakenshield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to angst briefly, though we will return to fluff and more overtly Bagginshield-heavy ficlets shortly. This was an interesting prompt because I have a particular allergy to first person narratives, both reading and writing them. This was my little stab at seeing if I could write in that style for any length of time and with any amount of skill. It's up to you if I succeeded, but third person is still my go-to darling :)

My life has been framed by fire.

If I lived before the dragon came, those years remain in my memory as little more than dreams. Was there ever a prince who walked at his grandfather’s side, standing tall in the knowledge that walls of stone protected all he held dear? Was there ever any doubt in my young mind that we were safe there? Between the great doors that shielded us from war and the gold that shielded us from want, the thought of threats from without seemed an impossibility.

No, the only threat we ever feared were those that came from within. For what wall can be built against the sickness that comes from within one’s own flesh and mind?

Fire marked the day I was born. The fires of the forges were burning white in Erebor the day I left my mother’s womb, forging weapons and trinkets and fine jewelry to welcome their prince into the world, the first in over a century. Yet it has been over a century since I thought of that as the day of my birth.

Was there ever really a time before, or did I only imagine it? Was there ever a prince who knew himself only as heir to the greatest kingdom of the world, a boy who knew himself to be safe? He did not hate elves, or Men, that much I remember. He was too naive and safe to know of their instinct for treachery. I remember jewels spilling from his fingers and his eyes widening as they sparkled and shone in his hand. He did not yet know the danger of carrying a handful of gems on one’s person through dark wilderness, and the darker cities of the world of Men. 

Now he is as distant from me as the unfeeling stars that wheel above the bed I make along the road. I feel us watching one another across that gulf of memory: the Prince and the Exile. We can no longer know one another, can no longer understand, and our fingers reach across that void without touching.

The person I am now was born in the fire of Smaug’s coming. The womb from which I emerged was the smoking city, the blood washed from my body was not my own, and the cries that rang in my ears were not at fright of a new world, but from a world ending.

Our fires have been paltry since then. They burn low in our hearts, in the forges where we labor, crafting finer wares than ever Men have laid eyes upon, though they do not know it. Often as not they only seek to steal what they cannot pay for, to slay the craftsman before the bill is due. I know their ways as the prince never did, shielded as he was by treaties and walls. The fire of dwarven hand, the fire of building rather than destruction, was both balm and curse. To stare into the yellow-white depths of a village forge was to stare back into Erebor. To blink, to look away to the glowing red metal in my hand was to come back, to remember that now we forged horseshoes, not swords.

My grandfather could not bear it. So we forged swords anew, and armor, and we marched before the last of our gold could run dry, before the last of our steel was mended down to nothing. We marched on Khazad-Dum, to bring fire back to our great halls. In the end, the only fire was to our own flesh. To the flesh of our brothers, and fathers, and sons. We burned dwarves at Azanulbizar. The grief is still too great to speak of even here. As is the shame.

Ered Luin is a coal mining town, and that was where we fled. Its fires were warm, and cheerful, and clouded the air with black smoke so thick it could blot out the sun. There was no escaping it, our last refuge, except in the campfires of the road when I wandered beyond its low stone walls, searching for my father.

 

There is something different about the Halfling’s hearth. It is warm, and framed with wood, and it is not enough to light the room without the aid of the lamps. It casts a soft red glow across the faces of the Company, of those who came when I called. I wonder why they came, as the pipe smoke curls about us, intertwining with the song of loss, and longing, and memory. I wonder if they remember the Prince better than I do. I envy them, if so.

There is fire here, at the end of the journey that took us so far from home, at the beginning of the journey that will take us back. It is a hearth fire, much diminished from the forges and flames I have known. But then, so am I.

Perhaps I will miss it, once we face the fire that awaits us at the end.


	14. Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thecosmosknowsitself prompted: “Dying is easy, young man. Living is harder.” is a Hamilton lyric that sticks with me and someone probably said/should have said it to Thorin at some point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter with the Thorin angst train before getting back to your regularly scheduled fluff. This ficlet could be read as taking place in the same universe as my fic "Burning Low".
> 
>  **Trigger Warning:** suicide ideation.

**Lesson 1:**

_Dying is easy_ , this Thorin had learned while still a prince.

It would have been easier if his grandfather had died once the madness took him. The first and hardest lesson, with Thrain standing helplessly at the throne’s right hand, dwarven loyalty to their king the very barrier that kept them from survival. His father could not be king while the true king yet lived. They were trapped by their best qualities, his grandfather trapped by his own life and crown from the help he needed, from the rest he needed, and Erebor by the king its people adored and so could only obey.

**Lesson 2:**

He did not think about death during the Exile, just as an exhausted man can not let himself dream of his bed while miles yet remain. Lay down, and he would never have moved again, the weary tread of feet one after the other after the other _after the other after the other_ till the vision of his own boots, the dwarf in front of him, the one behind him an endless train to nowhere, only _away_. His family worried for him, he did not know how to tell them, was too tired to tell them that they need not fear. He knew dying was easy. It was never an option for him.

 **Lesson 3:**  

It is over a century later, they are gathered at a table in the middle of nowhere, a hobbit gentleman’s home of all the unlikely places, and his nephews were cheering at the prospect of facing a dragon that had wiped out a civilization. He would need to talk to them after, but the words burned of hypocrisy on his tongue.  _Dying is easy_. He would need to tell them that, if he fell, they must take up the harder task.

**Lesson 4:**

Perhaps it should have been Gandalf at his sickbed, or Oin, or his father (he had dreamed in his delirium of his father, telling him long ago _Dying is easy, my son, living is harder_ ). It should have been the old telling the young. But then again, he should have been dead. He had seen how easy it was, and now every inch of his body ached and it was hard, hard, hard to open his eyes and take in a room he never should have seen.

It should not have been a hobbit a hundred years his junior who looked at him with dark circles like bruises under his eyes. “We got you this far, so _don’t you dare_ slip away now,” Bilbo rasped.

Thorin swallowed past lips so dry they cracked as he spoke. “I know.”

Bilbo frowned, put off from whatever speech he had prepared. “Know what?”

Thorin closed his eyes and sank back into the pillow, awareness seeping back. Memories ruined cities and ravaged armies and madness and waiting payment. “It only gets harder from here.”


	15. A Helping Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Bilbo took the Ring to Mordor?

Thorin was already out of his seat before Bilbo reached the table, accepting the steaming pot of tea from his hand and pouring it for their guest without being prompted. Bilbo gave a silent nod of thanks as he took his seat, settling back with his arms folded, hiding his left wrist.

“One hundred and eleven years old, who would believe it,” Gandalf said, and Thorin observed only a trace of sadness this time in the wizard’s bearing, only a hint of the years as his gaze flickered to Bilbo’s folded arms.

“One hundred and ten still, thank you very much,” Bilbo sniffed good-naturedly. “The party isn’t until tomorrow.”

“And it seems all of Middle Earth it turning out to see it!” Gandalf said, with affected cheer to Thorin’s eyes. “Why I must have seen half the Dwarven clans wandering the halls.”

“All seven clans have made an appearance,” Thorin said quietly, “to honor the Ring-Bearer.”

“Indeed, I thought I saw some hobbits amongst them too,” Gandalf said, recovering quickly. “Young Frodo and his Brandybuck relatives, and I daresay there were more than a few Tooks amongst them.”

“Oh yes,” Bilbo said. “Can’t even get a barrel of Old Toby most years, but promise a party of special magnificence and it seems some finally work up the energy to make the journey. May I count on your fireworks, old friend?”

“For you, dear Bilbo, anything,” Gandalf nodded.

And rightfully so, Thorin thought. Yet he remained silent, sipping the tea he had developed a taste for in his many years married to Bilbo. A little fellow in a wide world, Gandalf had once called the hobbit, but that was before the Ring, and the war, the ash and dust of Mordor seeping into their lungs, and Orcrist swinging down when Bilbo would not, could not, let go of the Ring. Not even to save their lives as Mt. Doom smoked and boiled around them. 

No amount of fireworks would be enough to erase the memory of when Bilbo had turned on Thorin and shoved him to the rocks, to the very edge of the precipice, face streaked with soot and mad tears as he screamed for the loss of his Precious.

Gandalf summoning the Eagles to their aid had been a start, though. Now almost a year later, he and Bilbo and the others were beginning to heal, with all of Middle Earth arriving in Erebor to pay its respects to the hobbit who had saved them so much blood, and grief, and sorrow. How much they would never know.

Bilbo shifted to take his tea from the saucer, revealing a flash of the bandaged stump that had once been his left hand, quickly hidden once again as he took a sip, crossing his right arm over it to hide what he saw as a blemish. No blemish at all, in Thorin’s eyes, but rather a battle wound that represented a greater honor than could ever be repaid.

“Bilbo…” Gandalf began. “For all that has happened, for all that Saruman did, and that I could not stop… you must understand how very sorry—”

Bilbo shot Gandalf a look, a knowing one that can only be had between old friends, but it held behind it a flash of steel, and a well of loss for all that could never be regained. Then, a smile, as quick to brighten and smooth his features as the flash of sunlight on water.

“Really, Gandalf, the fireworks will be quite enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I left the prompt for the end to not spoil the ficlet.
> 
> decluction prompted: Bilbo gets a limb cut off (hand/foot/ect) and is coping 
> 
> I was challenged to make a sad prompt into a happy prompt, though I imagine it's still bittersweet. I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	16. Not Quite Lord of the Rings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> maybemalapert prompted: MAGGIE PLEASE REWRITE TOLKIEN’S TOME. I’m sorry, but I’d so. read. it. <3333 
> 
> I REALLY REALLY NEVER WANT TO RE-WRITE LOTR, SO HERE'S MY RIDICULOUS TAKE ON IT.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A joke version/happier version of the previous chapter. Quite honestly, I'm not sure there'd be anyone for Thorin and Bilbo TO fight had they gone to Mordor immediately after the events of The Hobbit. So this is just me being absurd.

“Wow,” Bilbo observed as they walked through the completely empty desolation that was Mordor circa 2941 TA. “This place is really creepy, but there’s no one here?”

“I thought I saw a ghostly eye creature hovering over one of those towers and glaring at us menacingly,” Thorin said. “But there’s not much he and his nine creepy friends can do about it since Galadriel eviscerated them about 5 minutes ago. Is that the mountain?”

They walked up the mountain, it was a pain in the ass. Luckily they had supplies and no orcs to hide from on the way, because none of them had been born yet.

Bilbo hesitated at the lip of the pretty chill volcano (there was only a bit of lava way down at the bottom). “Huh, I’m not really sure I want to throw it in there. The ring is… rather precious to me.”

“Bilbo, you’ve owned it maybe three months. Just let it go. I promise your future cousin-nephew and about 50,000 more people who don’t die as a result will thank you,” Thorin said.

“I dunno...” Bilbo hesitated, and Thorin sighed, took it out of his hand, and with only a brief game of keep-away, because hobbits are much shorter and dwarves aren’t affected by the One Ring, he tossed it into the mountain.

The mountain belched. Somewhere in the distance, Sauron had a very bad day.

“Ok, can we go home now?” Bilbo said.

“Yes,” Thorin said.

And they did.


	17. New Arrivals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We return with some fun little character studies! Prepare yourself for Durin family cuteness!
> 
> thecosmosknowsitself prompted: Thorin getting handed a baby and he panics slightly (idk first funny thing that came to mind)

“Describe it again,” Thorin ordered, and leaned forward, blue eyes eerily intent as he pressed his intwined fingers to his lips in concentration. 

Thráin sighed, and wondered how he had ended up with a son that, though he loved him, at times had the same capacity for humor and lightheartedness as a very pointy sword. He really needed to teach Thorin to lighten up before the lad brooded himself to an early grave at the tender age of fourteen. 

“You have to be certain to cradle the head,” Thráin began for what was now the third time. “Lay the bairn lengthwise down your forearm, the head at your elbow, use your hand to cradle her bottom…” Thorin flushed at this and Thráin very nearly sighed aloud. “Then hold her to your chest with your other arm. Don’t you worry, I’ll be here if she slips. Babies are tough things, I must have dropped you at least a dozen times on your head when you were her size.”

Which might actually explain quite a bit… like how the branch of the House of Durin best renowned for its infamous pranking skills (Thrór’s youthful escapades still lived on in legend) had produced a son that could turn a Balrog with his glare. “Do you think you can handle it, my lad?” Thráin said. 

His teenage son, still barely out of childhood himself, with only a wisp of beard on his chin and a nose far too big for a face which was currently screwed up in a look of solemn concentration, gave a firm nod. “Aye, father.”

“Alright, here you go,” Thráin said, and handed the newest arrival to the royal line of Erebor, Her Majesty the Princess Dís, to her eldest brother, who accepted her as if she were the Arkenstone itself. It was a slow process as Thorin seemed reluctant to accept her fully from Thráin’s arm and looked about ready at the last moment to toss her back and make a run for it. 

Finally Thorin stood alone, body gone rigid as he stared down with veiled terror at the tiny bundle of cooing infant in his arms, wildly glancing back and forth between her and his father. Then, slowly, his posture eased as the baby made no attempt to leap from his arms to her death, and he settled. Thorin even dared a little rocking motion as he looked down at Dís, his gaze softening. 

“She’s beautiful,” Thorin whispered with awe, and wonder, and not a trace of irony as he looked down at a face that could charitably be said to resemble a wrinkled tomato. Even so, Thráin had to excuse himself for a moment while his oldest son and only daughter got to know one another, to wipe away the stray bit of dust that had strangely gotten into his good eye. 

 

 


	18. Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by Judayre: Sleepy cuddles

There was something between them that only existed in silence, and silence was a rare commodity in the crash-bang of their adventure. Everything was always running or revelry, sweat and heat and the clash of steel. Bilbo was terrified out of his mind most of the time, until terror had settled as a sort of constant background hum and he found himself almost at peace with it, which was strange enough on its own.

He would not say an island of peace had always existed beside Thorin. Quite the contrary, Bilbo had found him vexing most of the time when they first set off. Would it have killed the dwarf lord to smile when Bilbo came huffing and puffing after them? But the looks were less forbidding now, dare he say they were uncertain and a little shy ever since the burning pines and Thorin’s sudden and quite terrifying embrace, the apologies that followed.

Bilbo had nearly jumped out of his skin the first time Thorin’s fingertips had brushed his. The dwarf had barely looked at him, but continued walking ahead. It may have been Bilbo’s imagination that his pace slowed, that his head turned a fraction to look over his shoulder as if expecting Bilbo to catch up. Madness indeed to take it as an invitation, but Bilbo was feeling quite mad lately and so setting his shoulders and take a deep breath, he had picked up his pace until he walked alongside Thorin. 

A stolen glance was all he needed. Thorin was looking back at him, wearing a faint smile at the sight of him, and by jove if it didn’t make up for that missing smile when Bilbo had first dashed out his door after them. He let his fingertips brush Thorin’s back, a reassurance that the touch was accepted, even appreciated, and they had said nothing of it. It made it all much easier. Words always got in the way, all the fuss and bother of propriety, finding some way to overcome all the thousands of differences that existed between them. The sheer number of apologies for their ( _mutual_ ) boorish behavior towards one another would take all day. Yes, it was much easier to let it remain silent.

Cold nights gave further excuses, summer was fading into autumn and they were wandering north. It was not unusual for the dwarves to sit cheek-by-jowl, and he was practically a dwarf now, was he not? He sat resolutely beside Thorin on the log they had dragged over to serve as seats ‘round the campfire, idly placing a companionable hand on Thorin’s knee before turning to his meal. Thorin did not stir, barely nodded, and it was just as it should be, even as their shoulders touched the whole night, a light reassuring pressure that felt as if it grounded Bilbo, steadied him all this madness of a world that was not his own.

When they set their bed rolls side by side, he thought to be a little daring with this nameless something that existed between them. The lights were out save for some embers in the fire-pit when Bilbo rolled over, the angle shielding them from view as he found Thorin’s hand beneath his blankets with his own. Thorin’s fingers was chill from the cold, they had only just gone to bed, but it warmed Bilbo to his toes when those callused hands tightened around his. After a short while, Thorin’s thumb gave a light stroke over Bilbo’s palm. It was no trouble at all then to focus on that light touch, and let the sense of contentment wash over him as he slid into sleep.


	19. Forgery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> queenoftherandomword prompted: Penmanship, where Thorin wants to write something for Bilbo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will say, Thorin doesn’t have half-bad penmanship. However, the story went in a slightly different (and angstier) direction than I expected. Cue the return of “grubby soul” Thorin, ie a Thorin who maybe had to do some less than savory things to survive the Exile, something I explored further in my other ficlet “All We Are”.

Bilbo shuffled through the stack of letters on the tabletop, sunlight streaming in the kitchen windows of Bag End as he went through the onerous process of reading his mail. It was good to get started early in the morning so the task was forgotten by lunch. “Bills, bills,” he muttered under his breath. The grocer, the butcher, Mr. Holman and Hamfast for the garden, he hadn’t had to pay a repair bill of any kind since Thorin had taken up residence with him, and truth be told none of the amounts were terribly burdensome. It was just one more task that kept him from his book and husband.

“Thorin, could you take a look at these?” Bilbo called to the next room. “I want to be sure we have it right before putting our name to them. Feel free to sign them if there’s nothing amiss.” He was most certainly not trying to skip on the task’s boredom, it was just that Thorin had a better head for figures. “I’ll be in the study.”

He managed a whole paragraph before it was time to prepare for elevensies, and found the stack of letters neatly folded on the kitchen table. Bilbo picked them up, flipping through them before his eyes widened. “Thorin dear,” he said in a slightly more strangled tone that before, “did you sign these or have I completely lost my mind?”

Thorin appeared in the doorway, leaning against the side as he craned his neck to look at the pages Bilbo held. There was gray in his hair that had not been there when they first met in Bag End some ten years before, but he did not look nearly as tired as he had in Erebor. Shire living had done him a great deal of good. “I did, is that not what you asked?”

Bilbo stared. “Really? You are positively certain I did not sign them?”

His own signature was clearly visible on each page, as perfect a copy (if that’s indeed what it was) as he had ever seen. “I just… my goodness, I never realized you had such a skill at forgery that wasn’t, well, in a forge. I believe we’ve had some confusion, I thought you would sign with your own name. And… hang on, how are you so good at this?!”

Bilbo looked up as Thorin approached and took the sheafs from his hand, glancing through the pages. “It is not an exact match, had I more care I would have put more of an angle to the B. As it is, it’s too precise,” Thorin said, the corner of his mouth twitching as he added, “Your penmanship is somewhat more… creative.”

“But _how_?” Bilbo exclaimed. “I could not have picked those out from my own in a thousand years!”

A shadow flitted across Thorin’s face, but he shrugged, glancing down at the bills as he said, “Many years ago, when my people still wandered the road after the Mountain fell, we stayed the night in a walled village in the foothills of the Misty Mounts. One of our scouts during the night overheard the mayor saying his people intended to rob us while we slept. They had recognized that we were the dwarves of Erebor, and expected us to be quite rich. We were exhausted from our wandering, and with us were our children and wounded, most of us were unarmed. They might very well have won. The mayor had written an order to his guards that we would not be permitted to leave. So that night, I forged his signature for a falsified counter-order, and we were able to escape before they noticed we were gone.”

Bilbo took the bills back from Thorin’s hand, horror, anger and a strange feeling of guilt churning in his stomach as he stared down at the pages. “That was the first time you had to forge a signature?”

“No,” Thorin said, and offered a wan smile. “It was only one example. My people have steady hands, as you may have noticed. One illiterate mayor’s signature was hardly a challenge, even when I was less practiced at the art. I know yours far better.”

“Well,” Bilbo said, perking up with forced cheer, waggling a finger at Thorin, “next time, I full expect you to use your own, thank you very much! As my husband you do have equal standing after all, and it will free me from some of these pesky bills!”

“Of course,” Thorin said wryly, inclining his head in acknowledgement.

Bilbo cleared his throat. “And! If I should ever meet that mayor, I should like to give him a good kicking. He sounds like a terrible sort who well deserves it.”

“It was over a hundred years ago, Bilbo,” Thorin said gently. “By now, I suspect time will have done the kicking for you.”

Bilbo had intended to go back to his study, see if he could get a few more passages down about their time in Beorn’s house, but it would have to wait. He could hardly stop himself from looping his arm through Thorin’s, pressing his face briefly to Thorin’s shoulder. Closing his eyes, his writer’s eye saw too clearly the moonlit road, women and children fleeing into the night, and a young prince Thorin, eyes darkened as he turned away from those they had thought would offer sanctuary, only to find another betrayal.

“Let us go for a walk,” Bilbo said. “I think I could use some air, and these bills will not deliver themselves.”


	20. The Bewilderment of Treasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Anon and @maybemalapert prompted: I wish you would write a fic where Bilbo is the one gold sick.

The coins felt lovely around Bilbo’s feet as he wandered through the treasury, the cool metal as soothing as velvet against his fevered skin. As far as the eye could see were piled works of sheer beauty, wrought from gold and gems. He fondled a ruby the size of a goose egg, smiling to himself at the way it sparkled and shone so delightfully in the glow of the torches.

_“Aye, of course dwarves can resist the power of gold, it’s in our blood. But the other races… they are not so hardy.”_

_“We should never have sent him down here.”_

_“We need to find Gandalf.”_

The dwarves yet haunted the treasury, still searching for the Arkenstone no doubt. But they would never find it, Bilbo thought with a faint smile. Smaug had said it would be dangerous for them. There was no choice but to keep it from them, from Thorin, carried secret and safe in the inside pocket of Bilbo’s coat. Who knew what terrible things it would do their minds should they find it?

He was, after all, a very good friend.

Bilbo stopped, a dark shape blocking his path. Beyond it, a row of fine statues made from solid gold, eyes picked out in sapphires, lined the path. He wanted to touch them, to feel the metal beneath his hands, knowing the uncountable wealth it embodied.

 _“Bilbo,_ amrâlimê _, please come back to us,”_ a voice pleaded. Hands brushed Bilbo’s shoulders but he brushed them away irritably, focused on his path.

_“It’s no use, Thorin. He can’t hear you.”_

_“If not for those blasted armies we could at least get him away from here!”_

_“… Perhaps there is something to that. If we could convince him to take the Arkenstone to them? Thranduil would give him safe passage if he thought he would gain the stone.”_

_“But Bilbo still does not realize we know he has it?”_

_“Aye, it may take some hinting to get the idea into his head. Thorin, perhaps if he thought he was helping you?”_

_“Anything. I will do anything.”_

_“Once he’s out we can watch him from the walls, make sure he arrives safely to the camps.”_

_“I only pray that leaving the mountain will be enough to cure him.”_

_“What other choice do we have?”_

Bilbo shook his head, the voices sounding like no more than buzzing gnats in his ear. The Arkenstone… yes, none of this wealth was as beautiful as the stone. He should find a quiet place to sit and look at it for awhile. Away from the others, of course. He didn’t want Thorin to see.

It was the only way to keep him safe.


	21. Drinking Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> seaweedredandbrown prompted: Here’s a prompt for you! Can be AU or not, and is originally from one of those “prompt list” posts. “Our mutual friend dared the two of us to chug a whole pint of beer and I’m not going to let you beat me.” I hope it helps! Enjoy.

Here’s the thing about dwarven parties. At  _some_  point in the evening, they are respectable affairs where one might, for example, lay out a noble quest to slay a dragon and retake a homeland. Or speak with one’s host about the heritage of an ancient elven blade. A dwarven party might even spare a whole six hours for the coronation of a king who can barely stand on account of his injuries, and it will be a wholly dignified affair throughout, with a great deal of formal Khuzdul, royal pronouncements, fine armor and robes, and neatly trimmed beards. Dwarves are not, after all, barbarians.

However, the formal aspects of a dwarven party are somewhat...  _rearrangeable_. They can be moved around the night to be at the beginning or the end. That is to make room with the far more important part of dwarven parties, which is the drinking, and the quaffing, and the arm wrestling matches, and the singing, and the music, and the laughter, and the bellowed challenges, and the general chaos that Bilbo saw first hand and with considerable bewilderment with the company first showed up at his house unannounced.

This is because dwarves are not barbarians but what they are even  _less_  of is boring sticks in the mud.

Eventually, Bilbo learned how to keep up.

“You can’t do it,” Thorin pronounced, hefting a tankard about twice the size of Bilbo’s head, and filled to the brim with foaming beer. “If we’re going to have a contest it should be with something lighter. And smaller. Hobbits do not have the space for a Dwarven beer drinking contest.”

There was an appreciative “ _ooooh_ ” from the assembled company, most of who could remember the size Bilbo’s larder, though most did not know that the meal that had easily served thirteen dwarves and a wizard was only meant for a day and a half of hobbit meals. This challenge was, in a word, utter bullshit and the little smirk Thorin added at the end made it abundantly clear that he knew this.

Bilbo’s gaze was no less sharp as he thrust out his hand for an equal-sized tankard to be filled, his arm shaking only a little at the weight. Thorin’s was perfectly steady as he did the same. “Not on your life.”

“I say this only to spare you,” Thorin said. “And to prevent your future humiliation,  _amralime_.”

“I will remind you of those words when I’m holding your hair back later,  _dearest,”_ Bilbo replied sweetly through bared teeth.

“Only know there is no shame in stopping when the best dwarf wins,” Thorin shot back.

“Oi, enough flirting, ye start on the count of three,” Dwalin bellowed, slamming a hand down on the table to break up the death-glares the happily married couple were currently shooting at one another.

The crowd erupted on the count of three and Bombur and Bofur respectively filled the next tankard while Thorin and Bilbo glared at one another over their cups. Bilbo slammed his down first (Thorin slammed his upside-down, with extra flourish that Bilbo only rolled his eyes at as he accepted the next tankard). The contest went until someone begged off or puked, whichever came first.

Around the third draught, Bilbo could begin to muzzily see why elves hated dwarves so much.

By the fourth, he was pretty sure elves could stick it where the sun doesn’t shine.

Thorin had impressive stamina, and a clear history of drinking in a society where the sheer volume of liquid one could put away was a compelling case for kingship. And when it came to kingship, Thorin was very thorough in all things.

However, while hobbits may be less hierarchical, but if there was a contest in Middle Earth solely on the basis of putting food away, they could do so at a level that would make a cave troll sick.

It was a close contest. And a rather disgusting one, all said and done. These things tend to happen after the first few years of marriage wear off the honeymoon phase of always trying to look one's best for one another. Bilbo and Thorin were both setting out to  _win_ , and if there was foam in Thorin’s beard or liquid down the front of Bilbo’s shirt then neither of them was squeamish, or indeed sober enough to care.

“Enough!” Bofur said and both Bilbo and Thorin looked at him with bleary indignation before the dwarf added apologetically. “Keg is out, gotta get another.”

There was a round of boos from the assembled audience members, and Bilbo and Thorin regarded another before Bilbo very solemnly pronounced, “I can’t feel my face.”

“I think my insides are now entirely liquid. One more and there will be a loss of kingly dig- digni— you won’t like it. You should just admit you lost,” Thorin said. His eyes were only slightly unfocused as he spoke.

“I could do this all night,” Bilbo slurred.

“Which is vile, where are you putting it?” Thorin replied.

“Hollow leg,” Bilbo said then very slowly, sloshed backwards into his chair and closed his eyes, announcing, “M’not losing. Just resting m-my eyes…”

The snoring began shortly thereafter, so that by the time the next keg arrived they found a beer-soaked, drooling hobbit draped backwards in his chair, and a distinctly green king with his face in his hands fighting too hard to keep his stomach under control to notice anything about his surroundings. The night had to be declared a draw, which was fine because neither of them really remembered it anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit as a rather heavy drinker myself, I immensely enjoyed this one :D

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! It's always great to hear back from readers, even about individual drabbles, so please feel free to comment!
> 
> If you would like an alert for when I publish original novels and short stories, you can sign up [here](http://eepurl.com/dnzuV1).


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